


Consequence

by at_kilis_service



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Teen AU, Teenage AU, non-canon parents, punk!Lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:24:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3690429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/at_kilis_service/pseuds/at_kilis_service
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being uprooted from his home in the middle of his A-levels was something Gregory Lestrade could have really done without. Being moved in with the Holmes' was taking the piss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there :)  
> So, this is my first try and writing a Mystrade fanfiction, so please bear with me. It might take some time to get into the swing of.  
> I HAVE taken inspiration from 'Give me a Label' in a sense, but I really do not mean to copy anything about it, so please let me know if it gets too similar! 
> 
> Comments and Kudos mean the world to me, so please don't be afraid to leave anything! :) Comments really do help my enthusiasm, too! ;D

Being uprooted from his home in the middle of his A-levels was something Gregory Lestrade could have  really done without.

Being moved in with the Holmes' was taking the piss.

His mum had gotten a job as Nanny and tutor to Sherlock and  Mycroft  Holmes - something that Greg still found ridiculous. The fact that the boys parents thought they needed tutoring was hilarious in itself. His mum was smart, he wouldn't deny that, but anything she knew one of the boys would probably know. All the same, in return for taking on the job she would be getting a more than healthy wage and could move into the Holmes' manor with full use of it's  facilities  for her and her son.

Moving into a manor probably ten times the size of his previous home should have been far more exciting than it was but he just didn't want to move in general. Although he wouldn't be changing schools, he would be further away from most of his friends with only  Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes on the other side; he'd be moving from practically the middle of town to a field somewhere on the outskirts. It wasn't easy on either of them, but as his mother so insistently pointed out, they needed the money. Besides, Greg had his bike. It was easy enough to get into town when he wanted.

"Do people really still live in mansions and stuff? You know, with all the maids running around? And dinner suits. God, please don't tell me I have to wear a dinner suit..." Greg whined, leaning back in his seat in the car, legs  spread out  as far as they would go in front of him.

"You won't have to wear a dinner suit." His mum, Molly, chuckled in reply.

"Thank god!" Greg rushed out.

"Most of the time." She added with a smirk.

"Ugh!" Greg grunted dramatically. "kill me now! Just kill me now!"

"Jesus, Greg. We wont be eating with the family. We'll be eating on our own, or with the other help. You don't need to wear a dinner suit, stop being a drama queen."

"So they do have maids."

"They have  help . Some... maids, yes, but mainly just a cook, me, a Butler maybe... it's not as grand as it used to be."

"Jesus! They have a Butler?!"

Molly just sighed and shook her head at him as she turned onto the Holmes' driveway and stopped at the gate.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"I expect you to behave yourself."

"Mm."

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"I said-"

"I heard you the first time, mummy."

Mrs Holmes sighed as she adjusted Sherlock's shirt, straightening out the collar a little. Once she was content with it, she squeezed his shoulder lightly with a soft sigh.

"I know you don't want a Nanny or a tutor... But with your father's job taking him abroad more often, and my job keeping me in at all hours, I need someone to keep an eye on you."

"Michael keeps an eye on us." Sherlock insisted, looking up at his mother with wide eyes that he hoped would convince her to send this  Miss Lestrade  home.

"Yes, but that's not his job. He's a Butler, not a babysitter." Mrs Holmes - Violet - smirked as she moved away from her youngest son and took his  pyjamas  from where they'd been chucked onto the bed.

"It might as well be! Just give him a raise. He'd do it without a fuss! Why bother getting someone new in when we already get along with him?" Sherlock whined the moment he  realised  that the wide-eyed look wasn't working, flopping back onto the bed and messing up his shirt all over again.

"He already looks after the other  staff. I'm sure he  doesn't want two more responsibilities on his plate. " She pointed out, a well-shapen eyebrow raising at her son as she folded up his trousers, holding them against her stomach lightly once she'd done so.

" Mycroft  is old enough to look after himself and all I need is someone to help me with my experiments. She won't teach us anything new, you know."

"I know, sweetheart, but it's not the academic side I want her to help you with." She explained softly, before heading to the door. "Just be downstairs and ready in ten minutes, okay?"

"Yeah, whatever." Sherlock grumbled, waving a hand dismissively.

Mrs Holmes smirked a little, shaking her head at him before stepping out of the room. Sherlock made a point of letting out a groan - just to make sure she knew how much he wasn't looking forward to this.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

They paused at the gate, waiting until what he assumed was a sensor had read the number plate and soon enough they were let through and they continued  onward . As they passed the gates, Greg couldn't help but roll his eyes. They were literally on a country road. Trees were overhanging above them, creating an almost arch-like shape and shading the road from the sun beating down. The surface wasn't tarmac, either, instead made up of a mixture of gravel and sand that created a soft crunching sound under the wheels that was surprisingly calming.

The road wound on and on until they came out onto open space with a view that had Greg's jaw dropping.

Around them was acres of land, spanning out further than he could see. He'd never seen grass as green or plants as well kept as that surrounding him as they drove the last few meters.

Up ahead was a circular end to the drive way, a fountain in the middle, water trickling from the lips of a marble fish that sat on the upper-most level. His eyes finally focused on the house as they drove around the circle and his mother parked up near the door, the  chauffeur  already standing ready to park their car around the back in the garage where the Holmes' cars sat - Greg missed that conversation though.

Instead, he was taking in the grandeur of the manor before him. The house itself was four stories high, the left and right wings standing at what looked like a 135 degree angle to bring the outer wings around the drive. Aside from the front door - something Greg swore should belong on a church, not a home - there were another few dotted towards the furthermost sides of each wing of the home. They were far smaller but equally as beautiful. Despite the windows clearly not being the double-glazed kind that Greg was used to at home, they were huge and they looked far more sturdy and thick than any Greg had seen before. Some were plain, two- paned  ensembles that parted in the middle but others were far more grand. Some of them had designs carved into them, while others were painted. Greg supposed those would be the windows of the dining rooms and maybe even the ballroom he'd heard  Mycroft  mention when he'd passed him in the hall at school once.

The stone of the building itself was all a light, sandy  colour  that Greg  recognised  as Bath Stone, and it made him wonder just who had built this house out of a stone found at the other side of the country. Unless it was a very good fake version - he'd have to ask  Mycroft  one day.

"Gregory."

"Coming." Greg rushed out quickly as he was snapped from his awe, rushing after his mum and into the foyer where the Holmes' were all stood. Mr and Mrs Holmes stood at the right, Mr Holmes' arm around his wife's middle, and Sherlock and  Mycroft  stood to their left.  Mycroft  stood closest to him, a little shorter than his father but taller than his mother, and Sherlock stood the shortest of them all - though he suspected it wouldn't be like that for long. He'd barely stepped in for very long before a dog came bounding up to him, tongue hanging out and tail wagging excitedly. His tongue slid back in as he started to sniff at Greg's jeans, seemingly working out if he should be trusting him or not.

"Miss Lestrade." Mrs Holmes greeted, stepping closer to his mother, hand held out slightly.

"Mrs Holmes." Molly greeted, going to bow her head in respect, not sure how else to act.

"Oh, no no, none of that. Please, call me Violet." She smiled warmly, resting her hand over the other woman's, before trailing her eyes to Gregory. He was dressed smartly compared to his usual dress, wearing a black shirt, red tie and black - ironed! - jeans. His converse had been scrubbed clean just the day before, so the white was gleaming nearly as much as they day he bought them; Still, the look on her face told him everything about her opinion on his clothing choice. "This must be your son, Gregory."

"Yes, yes... I hope it's no trouble that he's come with me." Molly answered, glancing to her son as the dog finished sniffing at his leg. Greg quickly ruffled his ears, before the dog was happily plodding back to sit beside Sherlock at the end.

"Oh, not at all. My boys will enjoy the company."

Greg glanced over to the two,  Sherlock's  nose curling up at the sheer thought of that, but  Mycroft's  expression stayed neutral. He pulled his eyes back to their mother and smiled.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." he answered, taking her hand lightly and kissing the top of it like he'd seen done in the movies. Sherlock very nearly snorted, a small sound coming out, and Greg could see the hints of a smirk appearing on  Mycroft's  face and so his cheeks flushed a deep, dark red. Mrs Holmes just chuckled and patted his cheek lightly.

"Such a charmer."

Greg's skin was crawling by the time she moved to her Husband who had come forward to greet them too. The one thing he'd hated most about that wasn't the  embarrassment  so much, but how obviously fake Mrs Holmes was being. The overly-friendly smiling and brushing every single thing off as though it was nothing was the type of  behaviour  anyone would give to come across as a good hostess but Violet didn't appear to know the right limit to hit - which, in fairness, surprised Greg. The greeting from  Siger ,  Mycroft's  father, was far more brief with simply a kiss to the cheek for his mother and a shake of Greg's hand before he was ordering one of the - Oh, look! - maids, to help take their things to their rooms.

Greg was glad for the reprieve. Sherlock and  Mycroft  had rushed off before Gregory could even turn around, probably going off to plot Greg's murder, but for now he didn't bother worrying himself about it. Instead, he lugged his guitar case from the backseat, tucking it onto his back, and pulled one of the suitcases and his schoolbag that he'd stuffed with his things from the boot and followed the maid and what he thought was the Butler up to their rooms.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Stop laughing."  Mycroft  grumbled tiredly, arm laid over his eyes as he laid out on the sofa in his room.

"He  kissed her hand ,  Mycroft !" Sherlock snorted, practically rolling on the floor.

"It's a perfectly polite thing to do. Just because you wouldn't do that,  doesn -"

"It's an ancient thing to do! Something Papa's business partners do when they come for dinner. Gregory is  living with us . Will he kiss her hand every morning at dinner? It's ridiculous,  Mycroft ! Someone needs to teach him appropriate manners."

"You sound like father." he grumbled.

"No I don't!" Sherlock whined petulantly.

"Yes you do."  Mycroft  replied simply -  boredly , in fact. He sighed as he turned to sitting. "Just think of it this way... you can't spend your life laughing at the target of many experiments to come."

As  Mycroft  wandered past Sherlock towards the bookshelf in their recreation room,  Sherlock's  lips curled into a smirk and he sat back in his beanbag, pulling out his phone to start his note making.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg should’ve known that the first night wasn’t going to be easy. The afternoon had just been some sick illusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, erm, I realise now that halfway through my last term at University probably wasn't the best time to start writing a fanfic... but here we are!   
> This chapter is shorter than the first, and probably the rest but I tried dragging it out and it just seemed to make it worse ^^'' So sorry for the shorter chapter length! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it all the same!

Greg should’ve known that the first night wasn’t going to be easy. The afternoon had just been some sick illusion.

 

They’d unpacked without a hitch, organising their stuff into the rooms. Greg’s was only a few doors down from his mothers, but it gave him some privacy without setting him too far away from the only person he really knew here. One of the first things he’d bothered to do was put up his posters and set out his CDs and DVDs in an effort to at least start to make it a little more comforting. He’d only unpacked half of his clothes by dinner – a meal of fish and chips picked up from town by his mother that was eaten cross-legged on her bed while they talked quietly and watched something on her laptop. After that it was goodnights and Greg moving back to his room that was nowhere near set up.

 

He put his own quilt and quilt cover on the bed and covered the two pillows the Holmes had provided with his own pillow cases – he wasn’t going to deny good pillows out of pride. They were comfortable and far better than his own thin, flimsy ones. Though, he did still have his pillows with him, simply tucking them against the wall as a ‘cushion’ and totally not because they smelt of home still. After that it was his laptop that he pulled out. It wasn’t the most flash of things, but it worked. It was slow, and connecting to the Holmes’ Wi-Fi took the better part of five minutes, but he was connected and browsing the internet soon enough. He scrolled twitter and checked his email before heading to Facebook. He only had a few messages but they were from the usual people.

 

Philip Anderson wanting the answers to the psychology homework, Donovan asking why the hell he wasn’t at the party that night and his best mate, Jack Neale asking whether he could hang out the next day. In truth, Greg wasn’t sure. It was Sunday, so there was no worry about school or anything, but he knew his mother would probably want him around to get to know the boys…

 

But she’d understand, right?

 

_Hey, sure. 1 at the clock. G_

_Course. How’s the move? J_

_Shitty as expected. Tell you more tomorrow. G_

After sending off that reply, he’d tried to sleep but it just didn’t seem to come. It was only 12 when he first laid down to close his eyes, and 3 when he finally gave up.

 

The three hours had been full of tossing and turning, checking his phone and playing games. He’d been tempted to try jerking one off but he had no idea who was next door and what they could hear otherwise. In the end, he’d spent the past 15 minutes staring at the red, flashing light coming from the smoke detector above his bed. His eyes were watering from the strain of watching through the dark and so he finally gave in, throwing the covers off and rolling out of bed.

 

Finding the light switch was an effort in itself but soon enough his room was lit up and he moved to pull on his leather jacket and slip into a pair of shoes. The walk to the kitchens was easy enough and he didn’t really get lost. Well, aside from taking the long way around, but that was beside the point. He’d found the kitchen and he’d found the door that would take him out into the gardens where he pulled a cigarette from the confines of his jacket pocket and lit one up.

 

That first inhale was one Greg had been craving for hours without really realising. Amidst all of the unpacking and running around and just generally stressing about being somewhere new, the thought of having a cigarette to alleviate some of that stress had slipped to the back of his mind considering he knew smoking inside would be a definite no-go here.

 

As he smoked he looked out onto the gardens, leaning against the house and simply taking in just how dark it really was out here. At home, even at the dead of night, chances were you could see everything you needed to. The sky would still look light. But here? Here, it was pitch black. You could see nothing more than a few meters away. The only light was the one coming from the kitchen door that he’d left propped open, so he could see just enough in front of and around him for him to be comfortable.

 

It was as he was moving onto his cigarette that that light was blocked off by something and his head turned to see Sherlock Holmes stepping out through the gap and resting against the wall on the opposite side of the door with his hands behind his back, flat against the stone.

 

The following dragged on and so Greg just took drags of his cigarette and tried not to shuffle nervously at the way Sherlock’s grey eyes seemed to bore into him.

 

“Aren’t you going to offer me a cigarette?” Sherlock asked, breaking the silence. A relief washed over Greg but after a moment he furrowed his eyebrows and looked around at the boy.

 

“You’re 14” He said simply.

 

“You were smoking by 12.” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly,

 

“Wh- No I wasn’t.”

 

“Yes you were. You smoke too well for someone to have only smoked for as long as you’ve been legal to. Your nails already show signs of discolouration. Not to mention the fact that’s your second in a row. Their signs of a built up addiction if I ever saw them… So you have to have been smoking longer than you’ve been legal to, but I doubt that you would’ve started just out of the blue. So something must have happened to you… So, one logical conclusion is that you started smoking at twelve when your father died.”

 

The older teen’s eyes were glued to the darkness ahead of him, staring at nothing as he seethed. Sherlock was right, of course, but that didn’t mean he particularly liked it being pointed out.

 

“That’s none of your fuckin’ business.”

 

“Can I have a cigarette or not?” Sherlock sighed, sounding more bored than anything.

 

Greg rolled his eyes, just holding out the packet it to him. Sherlock took one thankfully and before Greg could even think about fishing out his own lighter, the younger had already pulled out his own and was lighting it up, inhaling expertly. Greg just rose his eyebrow without a word, inhaling one long, deep drag before he was stamping it out onto the floor. As he bent down to pick it up, Sherlock spoke once more.

 

“We don’t need your mother, you know.”

 

The following silence was fuelled by Greg’s shock as he slowly stood back up. He eyed him cautiously, not entirely sure where he was going with this.

 

“She needs the job…”

 

“She needs the money. You don’t want to be here either. Would you leave if I could get your mother a job somewhere else?”

 

“Wh- I never said I-“

 

“Oh please. Even just walking into the house you looked like this was the last place you wanted to be. You tensed up, more so than you had getting out of the car. When my mother spoke with you, your reply, whilst charming, was stiff in a way she wouldn’t pick up on. But I did. You were faking smiles and pleasantries. Much as you are with me right now.”

 

“Trust me, I’m not faking anything.”

 

“Not exactly, but you don’t want to be standing out here with me and the cigarette was just to shut me up. You’re edging towards the door, yet you wont be able to sleep when you get back upstairs, you know. You’re far too on edge for that.”

 

“I’m not on edge.”

 

“Yes you are.”

 

Silence abruptly followed as Greg stood there fuming. The kid had no right delving into his mind like that, deductions or not. Rather than tell him to fuck off, however, he just rolled his eyes and stepped towards the door.

 

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” He grumbled as he stepped through the gap in the door.

 

“Goodnight, Lestrade.” Was the simple reply before Greg just headed upstairs.

 

Of course, Sherlock was right. No matter how much he tossed and turned through the night, he just couldn’t sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time and he knew that the little bastard would be able to tell the moment he saw him the next morning.


End file.
